


A Sense of Self-Preservation

by magebird



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magebird/pseuds/magebird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’d known, coming in, that the mark had been trained, but whether through hubris or honest mistake, they’d miscalculated exactly how violent the projections would be, almost from the moment they’d stepped into the dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sense of Self-Preservation

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** [It struck me that Eames has a very high sense of self-preservation (wanting to sit out when things got bad, telling Cobb he would leave once he felt the kick whether or not Cobb was back from limbo then etc) while Arthur struck me as the sort who puts other over himself. I would love to see a fic where they clash on this, either in the dreamscape or reality, and how they resolve the clash.](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/756.html?thread=636660#t636660)

The city was a warzone. There was a car on its back, wheels still spinning helplessly, and the walls around them were pockmarked with bullets and the larger craters lefts by grenades. They’d known, coming in, that the mark had been trained, but whether through hubris or honest mistake, they’d miscalculated exactly how violent the projections would be, almost from the moment they’d stepped into the dream.

Shelter could be found, thankfully, thanks to Ariadne’s skill, and Arthur crouched with his back against a solid wall, reloading the semi-automatic he was armed with in brisk, efficient motions.

Eames was at his side—the only one of the team that hadn’t gotten separated in the last barrage of gunfire, and he was watching around the corner in the other direction, his gun raised. Whether or not they got along well socially, Arthur knew that Eames was a decent shot.

He finished loading the weapon and re-settled it against his knee, turning towards Eames, who glanced back, towards him for an instant. In that same moment, the concrete near his face exploded in a sudden rain of bullets pounding into it, and Eames flung himself sideways to avoid them, nearly knocking Arthur over and swinging back around to fire blindly around the corner for a moment, spitting a curse.

There was a distant cry, and the shots stopped hammering into the concrete. Eames fired a few more shots, then let his weapon fall, making a harsh noise under his breath and wiping off the blood where a shard of concrete had clipped his cheek.

“This is ridiculous,” he said, slumping back against the wall next to Arthur, “We’re getting our asses kicked.”

“It shouldn’t be too much longer.” Arthur’s eyes scanned the rooftops and windows of the buildings he was facing, trying to pick out movement that could be projections coming their way. “Cobb slipped past most of them in the explosion. If we can hold them here long enough, he can finish the job.”

“Fuck Cobb,” Eames snorted, “We’re going to get _shot_ and if the subject wakes up, and I don’t think Miss ‘My-Subconscious-Has-Flamethrowers’ is going to be all that thrilled to find us there.” He lifted his weapon, a sturdy little submachine gun, and rested the tip near his temple, “I’m out. I’ll meet you on the other side.”

Arthur grabbed his wrist, forcing the muzzle of the gun down towards the floor, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t just leave.”

“ _Watch_ me,” Eames jerked out of Arthur’s grip, “This is a bad job and if you weren’t so devoted to Cobb you’d recognize it.”

“Your _job_ is to buy him time to finish _his_ job.” Arthur could hear the sound of distant voices and glanced up and over his shoulder, “If you leave now, we blow the job entirely.”

“Easier to find another job than avoid that bitch’s security once she wakes up. I’ll stand a chance if I go now and get a head start,” Eames said, shrugging.

Frustration flared in Arthur’s chest, and he snapped, “Do you _ever_ think of anything besides yourself?”

“Not when it comes to saving my own skin, _no._ ” Eames had risen halfway to his feet, and Arthur glared at him

“You can’t just leave the team behind. It’s cowardly.”

“Then call me a coward, Darling, cause I’m gone.”

Before he could raise his gun again, Arthur sprang up and grabbed him, forcing his hand down. Something darker than humor flashed in Eames’ eyes, and in a single swift motion he shoved Arthur against the concrete wall hard enough to knock the wind half out of him. Arthur fought back with fierce tenacity, but Eames was simply stronger and held him pinned there with one arm across his collarbone.

“Don’t you ever try and tell me what to do.” Eames said, his face too close, invading Arthur’s personal space casually, aggressively. He leaned in, putting pressure against Arthur’s chest, making it a little harder to breathe.

“Get _off!_ ” Arthur growled, struggling to pry Eames’ arm off him. It wouldn’t budge, and Arthur glanced down, wondering if he could brace himself on something and break free.

He saw the red dot of a laser sight dart across the ground at their feet before settling on a place near Eames’ throat. His eyes widened, and he barely had an instant to yell, “Get _down--!_ ” before there was an explosion of rifle fire in the distance behind him.

Eames was quick, and he dropped to his knees, dragging Arthur down with him so they were both crouched at the base of the wall, with Eames braced against the concrete above Arthur’s head with one arm, the other still resting against his chest. In that position, Eames’ body was looming over him, somewhat shielding him, and Arthur scowled, shoving the arm off him and scrambling to the side.

He cautiously moved to the edge of their wall, peering out around the edge. He spotted the sniper almost instantly—A woman in a sundress lying on her belly in the window of an office building half-a-block away, and he was a good enough shot that it took only a single burst of firing to make her slump forwards in a spray of blood.

He heard Eames gun go off behind him, and expected to turn to find the other man gone, but instead he was aiming off towards a little knot of projections moving towards them from the opposite direction. Eames glanced around, saw Arthur watching him, and frowned, “You’re too careless to leave alone.”

Arthur bit back a retort, swallowing his pride long enough to pick off one of the projections Eames was firing at. When he lowered his gun, Eames was still staring at him, so he shifted uncomfortably and said, “What?”

“I don’t like the thought of you running around and getting yourself killed five days a week just because Cobb always has to run off and play hero.” Eames’ cheek was still bleeding sluggishly where he’d been hit by a bit of shrapnel, and a little trickle of blood rolled down towards the corner of his mouth. Arthur followed it with his eyes, frowning. 

“That’s my job.” 

“It’s a shit job if you ask me, love.”

“I don’t think I did,” Arthur said coldly, turning away again. He didn’t expect a self-centered asshole like Eames to understand words like ‘loyalty’ or ‘dependability.’ A hand closed on his wrist, and Arthur looked back.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Eames said, and surprisingly he sounded sincere about it. “Cobb trusts you. I can respect that.”

“It’s a lot easier to trust people who don’t run at the first sign of trouble.”

“Yeah, and it’s a lot easier to take advantage of someone like that. It’s a lot easier to hit you if you stand your ground.”

Arthur couldn’t help the expression of incredulity that crept onto his face, “What, you think hiding and letting my fr—letting Cobb get hurt would be a better idea?”

Eames laughed, actually laughed, turning to sight along the barrel of his gun before letting loose a burst of gunfire that sent the last three projections tumbling to the ground. Through the ringing in his ears, Arthur heard him say, “No. You’re stupid, but it’s endearing.”

Arthur was going to respond, he had the perfect rejoinder on the tip of his tongue, when a bullet caught him in the thigh, making him pitch forward with a pained yell. He saw his attacker running up the stairs along one side of the building opposite them, on his way to cross the piece of plywood that had been laid between the two roofs like a bridge. Eames spotting him in the same moment and whipped his gun around to aim, fire—

The gun fired twice before clicking hopelessly, empty, and Eames cursed, digging in his pocket for another clip. The projection was still coming, firing erratically at them, and Arthur tried to block out the screaming pain in his leg long enough to steady his gun, but he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. Eames frantic search came up with only his last empty magazine, and he tossed it aside. A poker chip fell out of his pocket along with it, but he didn’t notice, only reached to take the gun out of Arthur’s hands and swing it around to fire three shots towards the oncoming enemy—The man screamed and fell, toppling off the staircase and out of sight into the alley below.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, drawing his leg up to his chest with a groan, both hands pressed over the freely bleeding wound. He felt Eames lean over him.

“Shit—“ Eames hand was a solid weight on Arthur’s back, “Let me see.”

Fighting back the urge to scream, Arthur uncurled enough to let Eames see the injury, gritting his teeth and keeping his eyes tightly closed.

“I can’t walk,” he managed to grind out, “Go find Cobb and see if you can finish the extraction before they find me.”

Eames was quiet for a second, but Arthur knew by the steadying hand on his back that he was still there, then he said quietly, “We’ve got two bullets left. We could get out.”

“ _No_ ,” Arthur said firmly. Every heartbeat seemed to send another hot wave of agony through his leg, “I am not going to leave Cobb in here.”

“I’m not going to leave you here. If they find you, you won’t be able to defend yourself.”

“Yes, but they’ll be distracted for another five minutes by killing me.” Arthur grit his teeth, then snarled, “Go! You were pretty keen to run off a minute ago.”

There was another moment of silence in which Arthur considered attempting to roll over and kick the other man in the shin to get him to leave.

Eames spoke almost too softly to hear, setting the gun down on the concrete with a soft clunk, “I won’t leave you.”

Arthur bit back another cry of pain, “You’d leave Cobb.”

“You’re not Cobb. You’re too trusting, Darling. I bet you were the kid who always talked to strangers.”

“That has absolutely nothing to do with anything.” Arthur shifted a little, feeling hot blood trickle down his leg. He was getting a little dizzy from pain, “ _Fuck._ ”

There was a ripping noise, and something was pressed over the wound suddenly. Arthur swore again, reaching out to dig his fingers into Eames’ arm where he was applying pressure to the wound with a wadded up strip of his shirt. It hurt—but at least he wasn’t going to bleed to death.

“How much longer do we have?” he asked in a strained voice, and Eames checked his watch.

“Not long. Five minutes, maybe less.”

“I hope Cobb is almost done in there.”

Eames glanced up and away, in the direction of the building they’d been heading for before their mark’s projections ambushed them. As he did, the first strains of music, slowed exponential, started to swell in a barely audible hum. Twenty-five seconds of music in the real world, four minutes and forty-eight seconds in the dream. Arthur started counting down the seconds, driving out the occasional surges of pain with a parade of simple fact. Two hundred and eighty-five. Two hundred and eighty four. Two hundred and eighty-three—Pain burst like a firework behind his closed eyelids and he clamped down on the sudden surge with a pained hiss, his nails biting into Eames’ arm.

“Is there anything I can do?” Eames said, and Arthur considered asking him if there were any handy syringes of morphine lying around.

Instead he hissed, “Distract me.”

He’d expected Eames to start talking, not to kiss him, and for a second he was too surprised to respond, or even to feel the pain for an instant. Eames’ lips were soft, though the stubble on his chin was rough and scraped a little against Arthur’s cheek. Arthur opened his eyes, staring up at the blue sky beyond Eames’ bent head, but his body was too consumed by the pain of his injury to let him reach up to try and shove Eames away or…

Or maybe he just didn’t want to.

Eames deepened the kiss, parting his lips a little and bearing forward to run his tongue across Arthur’s clenched teeth. Operating purely on instinct, Arthur tilting his head back a little, focusing on the sensation of Eames’ mouth, of the hot breath again his cheek, the dichotomy of rough beard and soft skin. Eames made an approving noise in his throat, never releasing the pressure on Arthur’s wound, and said again Arthur’s slightly parted lips, “Relax.”

Arthur couldn’t really, but one of Eames hands snaked around to the small of Arthur’s back, lifting him as much as possible while keeping the leg still. Really, it was unwise, since it would place the gunshot wound below the level of Arthur’s heart, but at this point with less than four minutes to go, blood loss wasn’t as much of an issue as it could have been. Eames’ hand holding the makeshift bandage against Arthur’s leg was already slick with dark red blood. Arthur managed to uncurl his fingers from where they had been gripping Eames’ arm and instead reached back to support himself in a semi-upright position with one arm and loop the other one around Eames’ neck. 

The pain-fueled adrenaline rush made things seem clearer, brighter, and Arthur leaned into the next kiss with more enthusiasm, letting Eames guide things, opening his mouth a little to let Eames’ tongue dart in. Ordinarily, Arthur didn’t like to be the one to yield, but now with the pain distracting him ever few moments he needed Eames to direct things. He let himself relax as much as his pain would allow, allowed Eames arm to support him. 

Ninety-seven. Ninety-six. Ninety-five.

Arthur broke the kiss off to bite his lip against a sudden yelp that threatened to break from his throat as his leg throbbed. Eames didn’t let him go, but started kissing up the exposed side of his neck as he buried his face in Eames’ shoulder, eyes tight shut and stinging. Teeth grazed his earlobe, Eames’ lips pressed against his cheek, his forehead, the tight creases as he winced and tried to control the pain. It couldn’t be long now. Above them, around them the rhythm of the music pounded slow, like a heartbeat. 

Arthur’s fingers clenched around the collar of Eames’ shirt, and he let out a shaky breath, trying to force himself to relax. Not much longer. He could wait sixty more seconds, fifty-nine, fifty-eight, he only hoped that Cobb was done, that the wait had bought him enough time.

A ticklish jolt brought his attention back to Eames, who his bitten down lightly on the side of his neck, kissing the bright little blossom of lighter pain his teeth left. Arthur wanted to fight back, to attack Eames lips until they were bruised and swollen with kissing, but all he could do was make a small noise and lean further into Eames’ touch, trying to focus on anything beside his injury. Eames’ scent, like soap and faint cinnamon, his hand tight and steadying on Arthur’s back, his lips tracing their way across Arthur’s jaw.

Thirty seconds to go, and Eames let go of the bandage, releasing the pressure because thirty seconds wasn’t enough time to bleed out, and wrapped his other arm around Arthur’s shoulders, leaving wet red fingerprints on the back of Arthur’s brown leather jacket. Still, it sent another shock of pain through the leg, and Arthur twitched, squeezing closer against Eames’ chest.

Eames was saying something to him, something he couldn’t quite hear over the sound of his heart pounding like a rabbits’ and the pain pounding in his ears and the slow swell of the music crashing down to take away the dream…

Even when the physical injury was gone, the phantom pain of a bullet wound lingered for a little while, the senses reporting the softly echoing memory of pain to the brain. Arthur fought to keep it from his face so Cobb wouldn’t ask questions as they swiftly and silently packed up their things and left their mark passed out in her bedroom, Eames shutting the door behind them silently. The housekeeper let them out the back door, accepting the wad of bills Cobb handed her without a word and locking the door at their backs.

Cobb only nodded, silent, when Arthur asked him if he’d gotten the secrets he’d been looking for, and it was all Arthur to keep the triumph off his face. Eames walked in step beside him on their short walk back towards the car they’d come in, and Arthur paused several paces away while Cobb packed the locked metal briefcase carefully into the waiting padded compartment in the trunk. Eames slowed, watching him.

“Still feel it, Darling?”

“No, it’s not that,” Arthur said, even though the dull unreal ache still spread from knee to hip, “I wanted to ask you what you said, right as the dream ended.”

Eames looked down for a second, a little smile playing on his lips, then said in a solemn tone, “I said, ‘I could leave Cobb, but there’s no way I could leave you.’”


End file.
